September
by Be Summer Rain
Summary: It's colder than normal for September.
1. Those Who Wait

A/N: I'm actually doing a longer fic! Well, sort of – this will be five chapters. But it's a start, no?

_Those Who Wait_

"Thirty-two…thirty-three…thirty-four. Here we are."

Elliot stops the car at Olivia's direction. They shut their doors simultaneously and head for the door, which Olivia raps sharply with her knuckles.

"Mrs. Walton? Are you in there?" She tips her head to listen. "Footsteps," she mutters to Elliot, who nods and takes over knocking.

"Mrs. Walton, this is the NYPD. Open up." He pounds a fist heavily against the wood, and raises his hand to knock again when the door creaks open.

"I knew you'd come," she says, her voice thin.

"May we come in?" Olivia asks, gentle now that she sees the woman. The last few branches before winter, barren of leaves and unable to hold any weight of snow.

"Yes, of course," she murmurs distractedly, and holds the door wide. They step across the threshold, noting the smell of mothballs and failing lace.

"You were Bailey Northley's…aunt, is that correct?" asks Elliot, never one to dance around the point.

"Yes, yes, he was my nephew," she says, picking at the apron on the front of her dress as they go to sit down. "Terrible news, just tragic. Such a good boy. Such a future."

"We're trying to establish if anyone might have had a reason to kill him," Olivia says, her tone belying the weight of her words. "Did you happen to know if anyone had a grudge against him?"

"No, of course not," Mrs. Walton insists. "Bailey was a good boy! Always listened to his mother. Always came home right after school."

Olivia smiles. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"I saw him, oh, I don't know. Who can keep up with things? Would you like some tea?" She shuffles to the kitchen in her flowered dress and dingy slippers, ignoring their polite protests. She brings back cups of lukewarm water, which Elliot and Olivia carefully balance on the space between them on the slip-covered couch.

"Now, where were we?" she asks brightly, cheered up to be of service. "Oh, yes. Bailey. Well," she says, leaning forward conspiratorily, "he was mighty popular with the ladies. Always a pretty girl hanging around my sister's place." She settles back now, satisfied, and doesn't see the look that passes between them. They have surpassed words, earthly things that no longer matter, and she will never realize that she has been in the presence of the sacred.

"That was helpful," Olivia groans, rubbing her hand across her face as they head towards their car. "I don't know what that woman's missing, but it's something important."

"Like her tea," says Elliot helpfully, and they break into guilty laughter.

"At least you pretended to drink it," says Olivia, grinning. "I couldn't touch it. I think I saw a hair in mine."

Elliot rolls his eyes. "Since when are you so picky?"

"I prefer knowing what I'm putting in my mouth, thank you."

"Is that so?" he smirks, draping his arm oh-so-casually over her shoulders, which she shoves off after barely a moment's pause.

"Shut up, Stabler."

He holds the door open for her – a gesture of chivalry she's long since given up protesting – and she slides into the seat.

"Where to now?" he asks, happy to give her the task of navigating. He would be lost without her, he knows, but doesn't allow himself to mull over his unspoken words.

"The alleged girlfriend," says Olivia, poring over the map. "Go a few blocks and then turn left."

He does as directed. "Hopefully she'll be a little more forthcoming than the aunt."

Olivia sighs in audible frustration as they leave the girlfriend's apartment. "You'd think she'd want to know who killed her boyfriend."

"Think we can poke some holes in her alibi?"

"Not likely," says Olivia, knowing Munch and Fin will be on it the next hour. "That club keeps careful records and she knows it. I doubt checking into that'll bring anything up."

Elliot cracks his knuckles and she winces; she's always hated it when people do that. "Final canvas of the neighbours next, right?" he asks. She nods in assent and they continue their path.

"Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything, no nothing," mutters Elliot. "Bull. You can't stab a man thirteen times with nobody hearing anything." She rolls her eyes at him in agreement as they start the drive back to the precinct. Her phone rings and her eyes widen as she holds it to her ear.

"Yeah, sure Captain," she says. She covers the mouthpiece and mouths _stake-out_ to Elliot, who pounds the steering wheel once, then retracts his hand guiltily, as if halfway into the cookie jar. "We're gonna swing by our places first, 'kay?" she asks, and listens intently to the rest of the instructions. "Got it," she says as she scribbles on a notepad. "Give us an hour."

"A stake-out?" whines Elliot as soon as her phone clicks shut. "I hate those."

"Grow up," she instructs, though in truth stake-outs bored her nearly as much as they did her partner. "I guess they got a tip; Bailey's drug provider isn't above selling to both victims and murderers."

"Aha."

"Aha," she repeats, and continues to explain as they drive to her apartment. "So we're not entirely sure how much this drug dealer can be trusted –"

Elliot snorts, and she fixes him with a playful glare.

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, Fin's mysterious contacts gave us word that they'd be meeting some time tonight. Guess y'need a fix after cold-blooded murder."

"Hey, it'd make my nerves jumpy," says Elliot, giving her a sideways glance. They are used to each other's gallows humor by now.

He stops by her apartment and unlocks the doors. "I'll swing by in forty-five, all right?"

"Sure," she says, shrugging into her jacket. It's colder than normal for September. Once in her apartment, she glances out the window and waves to Elliot, who pulls away. She's both grateful and disappointed that he hadn't walked her up.

When he comes back to pick her up, they have both changed into less professional - and therefore more comfortable - clothes. She begins to speak as she opens the door, but he puts a finger to his lips, his other hand holding a cell phone to his ear. "Mmhmm," he says, writing awkwardly on a pad. He has unfortunately chosen the pen with argumentative ink. "Okay. Yep. Bye." He scratches down the last few notes.

Olivia takes the paper from him. "What does this even _say?"_ she asks. "How can you possibly read this?"

"It's perfectly legible," he says haughtily. "And you try writing on your knee."

"I have," she points out, but he chooses to ignore this comment.

"The address changed," he announces, holding up the pad as evidence. "375 Kenosha, probably a warehouse or something."

"Guess this means I'm navigator again."

"Yep," he says cheerfully. He was somewhat hopeless with maps himself, but he wouldn't tell her that, not under threat of pain, death, or tickling.

"Go south seven blocks," she directs, and they fall into a comfortable lull as they attempt to find their way.

"Well," he says in some surprise as they arrive, "not exactly what we expected."

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," she agrees, staring up at the three-story house.

"This presents a problem," he frowns. "It's got too big of a lawn. Where're we supposed to park?"

"I think the neighbor's driveway is on the other side of those trees," she says, craning her neck. "We can park there." The lawn was unkempt and overgrown, and the weeds growing between sidewalk cracks clearly indicated that nobody lived there, at least not lately.  
"Maybe it's haunted," he cracks. "See? Broken window."

She rolls her eyes playfully at him. "Scared of ghosts, Stabler? And here I thought you were Mr. Macho Man."

"Oh, but I am," he says, in his lowest tone. Goosebumps rise along her arms; luckily her jacket covers them. Her heart beats fire and ice.

He maneuvers the car so that they can see through the low branches of the biggest tree, well-concealed by the curves that the driveway takes.

"Guess we're in it for the long haul now," she says, leaning back and taking a drink of water.

"What're you gonna do if you have to pee?" he asks conversationally, watching her drink.

She lifts an eyebrow. "Trees."

"Oh," he says, feeling like he really should have known.

"I'm bored."

"And yet you were the one telling_ me_ to grow up," he says.

"Yeah, well, that was before my butt fell asleep." She shifts uncomfortably in her chair as he stifles a snort of laughter. "What?" she demands indignantly. "It happens!"

"You just need to get the blood flow back," he says, words dripping with innuendo.

She ignores him and arches her back. "Mmkay. I'm good now."

"I'm so glad," he says sarcastically.

"Good to know you care about my well-being."

"Well, I do!" he protests. "Just, uh, there are some boundaries, after all…"

"Right," she says, deciding that a subject change was in order here. Olivia has always believed in boundaries. "So. You think this guy's ever gonna show up?"

"What makes you so sure it's a guy?" he asks. "Sexist pig."

She sighs loudly. "Stabbing, Elliot. That's a guy thing."

"I dunno," he muses, "I still like the girlfriend for this."

She shakes her head. "Her alibi held up."

"Then why wouldn't she help more?" he asks. "She stone-walled us at every turn."

Olivia shrugs. "He was in some major trouble before he died. She's in love. Women do stupid things when they're in love, and lying to protect scumbag boyfriends is one of them."

"Really," he says. "And what stupid things have you done while in the midst of being in love?"

"None," she says with dignity.

"But you just said –"

"I know. But I haven't been in love, not really. So therefore, I haven't done any stupid things," she tells him, keeping her voice light while accepting the fact that he will always be able to see straight through to her soul.

"You haven't? Really?"

"I thought I was, once," she says. "But I wasn't really. Y'know, sixteen…can you really be in love so young?" The look on his face makes her want to swallow her words back in. "El, I didn't mean –"

"I know," he says abruptly. "But I think you got your question wrong. Can someone really be in love so old?"

"I don't know, Elliot," she says softly, though it's a lie. She does know.

"So," he says, attempting to break the heavy mood, "even if you've never been in love yourself, how many guys have been in love with you?"

She looks at him incredulously. "You do know this is precisely none of your business, right?"

"Yeah. That's why I'm asking. How many?"

"How should I know?"

He has no idea how she would know; he only knows that she _should._ He wants an itemized list, last names, phone numbers, and addresses, so that he can hunt down every last one of them and find out what stupid thing they did to lose someone like her.

"Why all the curiosity?" she asks, breaking the silence.

"No reason," he says, and she watches the shadow pass over his eyes.

"Bull," she says quietly.

He sighs. "What do you want me to say, Olivia?"

"I want you to tell me what's going on in your head. Just tell me." Her voice is plaintive now.

He laughs then, a little hollowly. "Trust me, Liv, you don't wanna go there."

"I don't or you don't?" she asks, and he's struck again by her way of laying his words bare.

"We don't," he tells her softly, holding her gaze and willing her to understand.

She looks away and rubs a hand over her eyes, and he's sorry for getting her into this conversation. "So. The girlfriend."

"She has a name, Elliot," Olivia tells him in annoyance. "She's a person."

"Erica," he concedes. "She's got an alibi, but that doesn't mean she couldn't have hired somebody."

"I suppose," she says dubiously. "Would she have the money?"

"We'll dump her financials when we get back. She's got motive, she's got opportunity –"

"And she also happens to have an alibi," Olivia finishes. "How about we wait and see who walks in that door, and_ then_ get into the details."

At five in the morning, Olivia's cell phone rings. "You two can head back," Cragen tells her. "Nobody's going to show now."

She yawns into the phone, then covers her mouth, embarrassed. "All right."

"Catch a few in the crib," he says. "You're gonna need it; we've got plenty of leads to track down."

"Okay. See you," she says, and after she listens for his reply she closes her phone.

"Coffee?" he asks, and she nods.  
"Please." They both know they won't sleep anyway, not when something could be done.

He pulls into a drive-through once they get back to a commercial district and orders two coffees. He doesn't ask what she wants because he knows, just like he knows that she wouldn't want him to go inside. He knows all this, and it terrifies him sometimes.

"Thank God," says Olivia, reaching for her paper cup. He stops in the parking lot for a moment so that they can get settled. She takes a long drink, then lays her left hand delicately down on the space between them.

"Tell me something," he says, absently tracing the outline of her hand with his thumb. He's pretty sure he's lost his mind by now.

"The sky is blue," she says, heart hammering.

He smiles and asks the next question, not allowing himself to wonder if this is how he will lose her. "Why didn't you ever fall in love?"

Lack of sleep makes her brave. She looks down at her hand, then into his eyes. "I guess I was waiting for you."

(tbc)


	2. A Love Story

_A Love Story_

He's late. _The more things change, _she thinks to herself, amused, but doesn't bother to finish the thought. If this goes on too much longer, however, she will definitely not be smiling. He'll know, of course; she wouldn't have thought it possible to grow more comfortable with each other, but then their relationship has always held surprises.

She looks up, hearing the bell on the door jingle, and attempts to glare at him as he slides into the booth. "Sorry I'm –"

"Late," she finishes, and he smiles guiltily.

"Last-minute paperwork," he tells her. "You know how that goes."

"Haven't you learned how to duck it yet?" she asks. She will forgive anything for that smile.

"Hate to break it to ya, Liv, but Cragen's getting old," he says, shaking his head. "Easier to slip past than Arragon."

She rolls her eyes. "He's not _senile."_

He scans the menu briefly, then glances up to see her watching him. "Not a whole lot of point in giving us menus," he acknowledges. "Just creating extra work for themselves."

"I keep hoping they'll surprise us one day with something new."

"I think the shock would give me a heart attack," he says.

"If the grease doesn't kill you first."

"The usual?" asks the waitress, and disappears again when they nod.

He lays the menu down. "How are you doing?" he asks, an edge of seriousness shadowing his voice. He asks this every time, and every time her answer is the same.

"I'm all right," she says.

"And Aaron?"

"Oh, he's fine. He's such a rookie, though. He's competent, but he's only a couple months is, after all. And he's not – he's not you."

"We couldn't have stayed together, Liv," he says, a trace of guilt still haunting him, and she nods.

"I know. I just have to spell everything out for him," she says, in a show of exasperation. "If I glance over at him, he has no idea what I mean."

Elliot shrugs. "That'll come in time."

"You still doing all right?" she asks, accepting her drink from the returning waitress. They recite their litany comfortably.

"Yeah," he says, nodding contemplatively. "It's easier than Special Victims. There aren't victims in Narcotics, and if there are, we can usually pass 'em off to Homicide."

"You get more stake-outs, though," she smirks.

"True," he says.

She stretches her legs to the other side of the booth. "At least you're not paired with a rookie."

"He's not quite as much fun to flirt with, though," he says, grinning wickedly.

She coughs on the swallow she'd just taken. "Stabler, if you make soda come out my nose, I swear to God I'll –"

"You'll what?" he asks, the picture of innocence.

She looks at the ceiling in exasperation. "Not everything is a come-on. You're not _that _cute."

"Well, if that's how you feel about it," he says, starting to rise, and she grabs his hand.

"Kidding! Kidding!"

"So I _am_ that cute?" he asks.

"We-ell," she says, drawing the syllables out, "I could be convinced."

He raises an eyebrow. "And here I thought I was doing pretty well. What does it take to convince you?"  
She smiles and pretends to lock her lips, tossing the key somewhere behind her back.

"Olivia," he groans, "even the twins don't do that anymore."

"I unlock for food," she says as their plates arrive.

"Good to know," he teases.

Her eyes close as she takes a bite, and he watches in fascination. "That good, huh?"

"Mm-hmm," she says, refusing to divert her attention.

Well, he knows how to solve _that _problem.

"Elliot!" she cries, slapping lightly at his hand. "Quit it! I'm trying to eat here. Eat your hamburger."

"What about dessert?"

"Everyone knows you have to eat your dinner before you have dessert," she tells him seriously. _"Politely,"_ she adds, seeing him take a giant bite and attempt to gulp it down.

"What did I ever do before you were around to keep me in line?" he asks, having swallowed painfully.

"I shudder to think."

"Liv?"

"Hmm?"

"What did I do before you?"

She turns to face him, food forgotten for the moment. "You were married, El," she tells him quietly. "I don't want you to forget that."

"I don't," he says honestly, "it's just that…I can hardly remember a time before you."

She nods slowly, unsurprised by the serious turn in the conversation. "I know. You were my beginning too."

…

They had made a pact that day in the parking lot, outside the drive-through with the horrendous coffee. One kiss was all it could ever be. And the silent agreement was to keep the words unspoken. Air thick and sparks at their fingertips, but they kept things quiet. They kept a lid on what was simmering and threatening to boil over. They aren't so stupid as to assume that the added tension went unnoticed; they and their colleagues make a living out of noticing things. But then there had always been the rumors.

Cragen was standing outside the one-way, months later, when Elliot broke a chair. Slammed it to pieces against the wall. Olivia was in there with him, and for the first time in their history she stiffened when he came near. They got their confession, that much was true, but Elliot had finally crossed the line he'd been threatening to. The damage was irreparable.

He got two weeks paid leave before he was reassigned to Narcotics. "You'll like Narcotics," Fin told him, and Munch overheard the hauntingly familiar words. "There ain't no victims." Elliot nodded mutely, careful not to slam his locker door before he left the squadroom in silence. He knows the acrid sting metal leaves on skin.

Olivia had been his partner for eight years. This was not going to be their goodbye. She looked neither left nor right as she followed him out the doors.

"Elliot."

He was leaning against the brick wall, his head in his hands. "Let me go," he said, but there was no strength in his words.

She swallowed and walked up to him. "El."

He refused to look at her. "It wasn't supposed to be this way, Liv," he said.

"I know," she whispered, her voice catching. The bricks are rough behind him.

He met her eyes for the first time all day. "I'm sorry." The words didn't carry the weight he'd have liked them to. He was too far down for her to hear the regret crashing down on him, but he hoped she heard the urgency, the desperation. How badly he needed her to understand this.

"I don't want to do this without you," she said, tears beginning to spill over.

"Don't cry," he murmured, and brushed the traces of salt from her skin with his thumb.

She drew in a shaky breath. "I don't mean to."

"I don't want to lose you, Liv," he whispered heavily, and she saw that tears were threatening in his own eyes.

"What are we gonna do?" she asked. She broke the moment his fingers caught hers.

"We're gonna say goodbye," he said, looking into her eyes as he slid his hands around to the back of her neck. Her mouth met his willingly, hesitantly.

"No," she whispered, drawing back. "Don't let this be goodbye."

He murmured hello into her ear as she leaned into him. And he didn't care who was watching when he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again. They would not let this be the end.

They began meeting for lunch after that, a little cautiously. Steps awkward and the dance unclear, neither sure of the boundaries, neither wanting to fall. They have held back all this time, but even seeing each other just a few times a month, they began to know. There was nothing they could do to keep from falling.

…

"How are the guys lately?" he asks. They leave a tip on the table and push through the doors. Autumn has set fire to the trees. She rolls her eyes, and he laughs. "Same as usual, I assume."

"Yeah," she says. "Only…Munch has been talking about retiring."

"He won't," says Elliot. "Not yet. He's always saying that. What does Fin think about it?"

"Hates it." They fall into an easy stride on the sidewalk, and both, for now, pretend that they don't remember the years they spent doing this. "Partners get attached, y'know."

He smiles. "I know."

She tips her head back, trying to see the tops of the trees. Futile now, but he wouldn't tell her that.

"Do you ever wonder why it was that case?"

He doesn't have to ask what she means. He always knows. "Sometimes," he answers.

"I bet you think about how you were right," she says, smiling.

"Of course! Too bad she didn't hire a hit man with more common sense."

"Or one less easily bought off," she adds.

"That stupid, it's no wonder he wasn't a productive member of society," he says, and counts it as a victory when he sees the amusement dance in her eyes.

They walk into September holding hands. If it weren't for the steady rhythm against the concrete, she would hardly believe her feet touched the ground. This was the love story she had forgotten to have, a fairy tale closed in dust for too long.

"What's so funny?" he asks, seeing the smile on her face. He's glad to see it now; it had become rare, near the end.

"You," she says.

"Glad I can be a source of entertainment."

She shrugs. "Don't say I'm not resourceful."

"Never would," he answers. "You wanna call a cab?"

"Let's just walk," she says, and he realizes that he will never cease to marvel at the simple things that make Olivia happy. He realizes too that it's contagious. That he could spend the rest of his life like this, walking down the sidewalk through an autumn afternoon.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, and he just shakes his head, the words sounding ridiculous even in his mind. It's a favorite phrase of hers; she employs it at least every other phone call.

"Just…that I'm happy."

"I'm glad," she tells him seriously. "I think Cragen was worried about your transfer too, but it seems to be working out, you're settling in –"

"Not that," he says awkwardly. "Being here."

"Here?"

"With you."

She grins and takes the bait. "How about here?" she asks, taking a giant step forward.

He laughs. "Yep."

"And here?" She feels the first drop of rain on her skin.

"Olivia," he warns, and she smiles devilishly.

She twirls, ballroom style, and curls naturally into his arms. Rain is beginning to drum a sharper pattern on the ground. "What about here?" she asks, her voice low.

He smiles. She can't remember seeing him smile so much in one day before. "Definitely there."

"Hmm," she says, "guess I'll have to stay."

"We're getting wet," he whispers into her ear.

"I don't care," she replies, and it's true: she would rather be standing here with him, drenched to the skin, than dry and warm with anyone else.

He would stand here with her in his arms forever if he believed that was what it would take. She may not have been his first beginning, he wouldn't deny that, but lately he hasn't been sure if clocks haven't stopped and the universe hasn't shifted. If forever hasn't started over again. Some would call it tunnel vision; he prefers to call it enlightenment. He only sees her. "You're beautiful, you know," he says, brushing dripping hair out of her eyes as he leans in to kiss her. She knows no such thing, but as she closes her eyes she thinks she might be willing to take his word for it.

(tbc)


	3. Look at Tomorrow

_Look At Tomorrow_

She's happy to see him at her door, and even happier to see what he's got in his hands.

"I thought we could celebrate," he says, offering her the paper bag. "Two years, you know."

"That's not till next week," she informs him, but takes the chocolate ice cream out of the bag anyway.

"Nothing wrong with celebrating early," he says, recovering quickly.

"Not that I don't love chocolate ice cream," she says, "but is this seriously your idea of a celebration?"

"Nah," he says, a lazy smile spreading over his face, "this is just for starters."

"I could work with that," she throws over her shoulder, heading to the kitchen for spoons. She grabs the necessary utensils and returns to see him making himself comfortable on her couch. "Making me do all the work, huh?" she teases.

"I'm just conserving my energy," he tells her innocently. "Wouldn't want me to fall asleep by eight, now would you?"

"When have you ever fallen asleep by eight?"

He has to concede the point. "Maybe when my kids were babies. You learn to have very flexible sleeping habits."

She scoops ice cream into their respective bowls. "A talent that would serve us all well," she points out. "I mean, much as I love being called at four in the morning, you gotta sleep sometime."

"Maybe SVU detectives should try being nocturnal," he muses.

She laughs. "Like that would help."

"Hey, I'm just offering suggestions here!" he defends himself.

"Stabler?"

"Oh, pulling out the last names now, are we?"

"Just shut up and eat your ice cream."

He sighs. "Yes ma'am."

"Now that's the kind of respect I like to see," she says in mock seriousness, taking a bite of her own dessert. He turns his attention to his bowl as well, and several minutes pass in the comfortable quiet that comes from knowing someone's soul.

"D'ya ever wonder," he says conversationally, licking the last of his ice cream from his spoon, "what would've happened if we'd stayed partners?"

"Sometimes," she says. "You mean, besides spontaneously combusting from sexual frustration?"

He laughs. "Yeah. Besides that."

"I don't know, Elliot," she says, chewing on her lower lip. She does wonder. "We would've gone on like we had, I guess. Stepping around everything." She gets up to take her dishes to the kitchen, and he follows.

"Liv."

"What?" she asks, annoyed at the way he's standing in her path.

"Don't we do that now anyway?"

She sighs. "El, let's not start this conversation now. It's a celebration."

"I just…what are we celebrating, Olivia, really? What are we?"

"Do we have to name it?" she asks. "We just…we just are."

"I think we need to talk," he tells her, leveling his gaze with her own.

She looks at the floor, knowing that he's probably right. "Yeah. But not tonight, okay? Tonight," she continues, giving his tie a playful tug, "you're far too dressed for the occasion."

"Not tonight," he agrees, allowing her mouth to capture his own. "All right."

…

He calls her three days later, and she doesn't approve of the way her heart hammers at the ring. She's never been good at this sort of thing, and she's beginning to resent him for pushing the issue. Of course she wants to be with him; that had never been the question. She just wishes he would let things be. Perhaps it was hypocritical, after all the times she'd pushed him to open up, but then she had never pushed him to open up about _her._ This was too close. Suddenly she's angry: she doesn't want him peering into her heart. Doesn't want him breaking through her locked doors.

She takes the phone into her bedroom, where she can curl up and look out the window. Late September brings bare branches scraping against her window, and she wonders why she ever loved the fall. "Hello," she says, her tone a little questioning. It could be anyone, after all, even though she knows it could only be him.

"Hey," he says, and she's amazed at how his voice can still make her melt, even now that she's hardened as much as she has.

"So," she begins, and they both laugh nervously. A thousand silent words race over the line.

"I miss you, Liv," he says.

She thought she had prepared for anything, but she's taken aback by this. "What? We just saw each other three days ago."

He sighs audibly over the phone, and she can picture him running a hand over what was left of his hair. "That's not what I mean."

"Would you kindly explain what you do mean, then, 'cause you're confusing the hell out of me."

Silence hangs heavily over their heads. "You haven't…been around. I mean," he continues, stifling her sputtered protests, "mentally or emotionally or something, because something just isn't there."

"I don't really know what you're talking about," she says stiffly, masking the lump in her throat.

"That's sort of the point, then, isn't it."

"I hate it when you're cryptic like this."

"We aren't connecting, Liv," he says quietly.

"What do you mean we're not connecting? We connect fine, as I recall." She knows by the pause on the line that she shouldn't have made a joke. Not tonight.

He swallows. "I don't know you anymore."

"Oh," she says simply, allowing the word to dangle in the air.

"And I miss you," he says again.

"What do you want to do about it?" she asks quietly.

"I don't know," he says. "But there's one thing I need to know…I need to know whether or not you even want to be with me anymore." His voice holds exhaustion and frustration and the tiniest note of fear.

"Of course I do," she says.

"Then why are you backing away?"

"I'm not," she says, her anger nearly palpable.

"You are," he tells her. "As long as I've known you, Olivia, you have never gotten close to anyone. Not like this."

She grips the phone tightly. "I can't, Elliot. The job –"

"It's not the job and you know it."

"Well then, why don't you enlighten me? You seem to know everything."

"Olivia," he says, and the patience in his voice makes her want to scream. "I am not going to hurt you. I'm not your mother, I'm not using you, and I'm not going to walk away without a fight."

"But you would walk away," she says, her words emotionless.

"Is that all you got from that?" he says incredulously.

"You would walk away," she repeats. This is why she locks her heart.

"You seem to want that," he says, a little bitterly now.

"I don't."

"Would you tell me what you do want?"

"I want you to leave things be. Just -"

"I can't do that, Liv."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because this doesn't feel right! We were closer when we were partners than we are now! Christ, Olivia, I could spend the rest of my life with you, but I can't even be around you when you won't let me in."

"Maybe you shouldn't be around me then."

His breath catches in his throat. He hadn't meant this to happen. "Liv, c'mon. That's not what I meant."

"No," she says slowly, "but it's what I mean." She clicks the phone off and places it gently beside her bed. It rings insistently for several minutes, but she doesn't pick it up. She watches it steadily, waiting for the tears to come, and hating herself when they do.

…

He finally gives up pressing redial, choosing instead to stare incredulously at the phone in his hand. This was it, what had been simmering for weeks, months – hell, he didn't even know anymore. She was scared, yeah, but wasn't he just as terrified? He was running blind here, and managed to run straight into a ditch. He groans audibly and heads for the shower. He's still too shell-shocked to think about this any further.

…

Her clock reads three a.m. Maybe it's wrong? She pads to the kitchen: 3:01. Damn. She flops onto the couch, suddenly too exhausted to make it into her bedroom. She knows she isn't going to sleep. Why did he have to push so hard? She's never been one for self-analysis, and doesn't appreciate his comments about getting close running through her head. They were perfectly close. What good would a heart-to-heart or whatever stubborn idea he had do? She has never been one for relying on someone else. Some lessons you don't forget.

…

"Bad night?" asks Cragen when she drags herself through the doors in the morning.

"Yeah," she says, leaving him waiting for an elaboration.

Aaron looks up when she thumps into her chair. "Bad night?" She fixes him with a fierce glare, and he quickly ducks his head to peer intently at his paperwork. Apparently so.

She must look awful to be attracting all this attention. She'd tried to attend to the shadows on her face in her bathroom that morning, but she couldn't magically erase the bags under her eyes.

"Benson and Galluch," calls Cragen. She still hasn't quite gotten used to the uneven cadence of the pairing. "We got a hospital patient, just regained consciousness, says she was raped."

"Got it," says Olivia, grabbing her coat. Aaron follows her steps a little warily.

Five minutes of stony silence in the car and Aaron can bear it no longer. "So d'ya wanna talk about it or what?"

She is about to snap at him, but when she sees his expression she softens. He's just a kid, after all. A married kid with two children, but a kid nonetheless. "Talking's kinda the problem, actually," she says, relenting.

"Ah," he says with a nod. "Relationship troubles?"

"You could say that," she says, slowing down for a light that she's just noticed is red.

"Your ex-partner, right?" he asks, and she's so startled that the car behind her honks to get her moving forward again.

"How'd you know that?"

He shrugs. "Things get around," he tells her, focusing on the road.

"Yeah," she says, sighing suddenly. "Ex-partner. Ex-boyfriend, too, actually." The syllables clang cruelly in her mouth. Ex.

"Oh."

She laughs harshly. "Yeah. Oh." They park in the hospital lot and she concentrates on not slamming her car door. If there's one thing that she has learned in her life, it is control.

…

"Someone's got a bug up their butt," observes Rick, earning a glare from his partner that could send small children fleeing in terror.

"I am fine," Elliot pronounces. "What've we got?"

"Nasty head wound," says Rick, clearing away the remnants of what looked to have been quite the party so that Elliot could squat next to him. "No other obvious assault. Found with a needle still in her arm; that's why we got called."

"Weapon?"

"Rock. Already bagged it."

"How'd you get here so fast? It's two in the fucking morning."

"Boy Scout," says Rick. "Always prepared."

Elliot rolls his eyes. "How nice for you."

"What, the call interrupt an, um, relaxing evening?" asks Rick, a slight smirk on his face.

"No," says Elliot icily, "not that it's any of your business."

Rick raises his eyebrows. "All right, all right." Women problems. He knew how that went.

…

_Hey Olivia.__ You wanna talk?_ He shakes his head. No good. She wasn't likely to want to talk to him. A letter, then, just a casual note to say he was thinking of her. Or an e-mail? E-mail was a little less personal. But then maybe that would be a negative, and besides, it was much too fast. He'd prefer something bouncing around the US Postal Service for a little while. Give the words time to…settle.

Oh, God. He was officially losing it.

_Hey, Liv – _

No, scratch that. Too jaunty.

_Olivia _–

Too formal. He may as well write To Whom It May Concern.

_Dear Olivia – _

He knows instinctively the truth of this, even if he won't ever write it down. _Dear Olivia – _

…

She paces her apartment, wishing for the first time that it was larger. She's getting sick of staring at the same length of carpet.

_Listen, El –_

No, she couldn't say El. She's lost that privilege.

_Hey, Elliot, I was wondering if we could talk –_

Like he'd want to talk to her? Now? Best not to say that up front.

_Elliot._

Maybe that was best. Just Elliot. She can already hear her voice sliding over the familiar vowels. He has always been just Elliot, after all, and she has always loved this about him.

…

She shifts from foot to foot, suddenly cold, and reaches out to knock on his door. She pulls back as if she's been burned, then realizes how ridiculous she must look to anyone who cared to glance down the hall, and her hands darts out of its own accord and knocks once, twice, on Elliot's door.

"Olivia," he says in surprise when he pulls it open, though she knows he must have seen her through the peephole, and she realizes just how much she has missed her name in his mouth.

"Hi," she says, suddenly feeling like the greatest idiot ever to walk on two legs. "I – I should go," she says, turning away.

"Still running?" It isn't a challenge, merely a weary question. She has always been running, and she knows with startling clarity that the only way she wants to run is towards him.

"No," she says, almost defiantly.

"Come in," he says, holding his door wide and looking at her curiously. She steps through, nervous again. "Want a drink?"

"No thanks."

"Okay." He shrugs and moves towards his couch, motioning her to follow. She sits cautiously on the edge of the cushion, and even though she has resolved to stay, she looks at though any moment she will burst into flight. "Let's not beat around the bush," he says, a phrase he's never fully understood, and she nods. "Why are you here?"

"Because," she says, "I'm not going to give up without a fight."

He smiles, the first time he's done so in days. "When did you decide that?" He realizes belatedly that perhaps that's a stupid thing to say, under the circumstances, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"It's just…I woke up this morning, and I realized that I didn't want to have to look at tomorrow." She meets his eyes, and perhaps for the first time in her life, allows herself to truly fall. For the first time in her life, she will allow someone else to catch her. "Not if I didn't see you there."

(tbc)


	4. The Search Is Over

A/N: Bring on the OOC fluff! (Is there really any kind?) Watch your blood sugar, everyone. Many thanks to Jill from saving this chapter from being even more OOC.

_The Search Is Over_

She feels vaguely ridiculous, being a bride at this age. Weddings were for glowing twenty-somethings, not a 45-year-old cop with a stubborn streak seven feet wide. She inspects the dress thrown over her bed, making sure that it hadn't magically gotten stained on its trip from the closet.

She hears a knock at the door, and after calling out a harried "come in," Casey walks into her bedroom.

"I like it," she says, nodding in approval.

"I know you do," says Olivia irritably. "You helped me pick it out, remember?"

Casey laughs, not easily offended. She has three sisters, after all, and is well acquainted with wedding day nerves. "You'd better get dressed, Liv; we've got pictures in an hour."

"Yeah, you're right," says Olivia distractedly. "Where's my pantyhose?"

Casey scoops it up from the floor and tosses it to her. Olivia kicks off her slippers and starts putting it on, and is hopping around the room with one foot in – fancy clothes had never been her strong suit – when Elliot walks in.

"Elliot!" cries Casey in dismay. "You're not supposed to see the bride yet!"

"Pictures," he points out.

"Oh, right," says Casey, abashed. "You guys don't much go for tradition, do you."

"Never have," says Olivia, smiling now, and thumps onto the bed in the temporary euphoria of having successfully put on the pantyhose.

"Makes more sense this way," says Elliot. "We can go straight from the ceremony to -"

Casey snorts. "I have to say, I'm glad you didn't take Cragen up on his offer."

"What, the station wouldn't have been a good place to hold the reception?" asks Elliot innocently.

"Not exact – oh no!"

Olivia looks at her nervously. "What?"

"You haven't got something old, new, borrowed, or blue!"

Elliot stares at her as if she is speaking a foreign language, possibly Martian.

"My dress is new," Olivia points out. "And my necklace is both borrowed and blue. And…I guess it's old?"

Casey bites her lip, unconvinced.

"Does it really matter?" asks Elliot, still mystified.

"I suppose not," says Casey with a sigh.

"Well, hang on," he says, putting an arm around Olivia's bare shoulders. "We're something old, right?"

She glares at him for the implication.

"I mean – not that you're old, of course. I mean us. Being a 'we.' We've never been singular, not since we met. We're old."

"True," Olivia concedes.

"And this," he continues, pausing to kiss her deeply and then pulling back to smile into her face, "is something relatively new."

"Relatively," says Olivia, but is grinning anyway.

"Ugh," says Casey, a hand over her eyes in mock disgust, "you guys aren't even married yet!"

Olivia gasps. "Elliot Stabler, I'm not that kind of girl!"

Casey dares to peek through her fingers. "Besides," she says, directing her lecture towards Elliot, "she still needs to get dressed! And you _cannot_ see her put the dress on!"

"All right, all right," says Elliot, allowing himself to be shooed away, lest Casey turn her courtroom glare on him.

"It's so romantic," sighs Casey, once she is sure that any male is out of earshot.

"So you've said," says Olivia, holding up her dress and inspecting it once again.

"Well, it is," Casey defends herself. "And if you don't put that dress on, Olivia –"

"I'm putting in on!" says Olivia, unzipping the back and stepping into it.

Casey, surmising that her services were no longer needed, perched on the edge of Olivia's bed. "How did he propose?"

"I have told you at least a dozen times," says Olivia, slipping her arms through the appropriate places.

"One more time, Ma, please," begs Casey, and Olivia laughs despite herself.

"Well," she begins, "once upon a time –"

"In December," interrupts Casey.

"Yeah, December," continues Olivia, unabashed, and leaves the zipping of her dress for later. "He took me ice-skating, because I mentioned once that I'd never learned. I suspected at the time that he just wanted the entertainment value, but he promised to teach me, and I thought it was sweet."

"'Sweet' and 'Detective Stabler' are not generally used in the same sentence," muses Casey.

"So we got to the ice, and they had the tree up 'cause Christmas was in four days, and it was getting to be twilight so the lights were shining on the ice."

"So basically," interjects Casey, "it was all unbearably romantic."

"Yes, basically," says Olivia with a laugh. "I did manage to get my skates on, though! And so…we went."

Casey winces, knowing what is coming.

"And I fell on my butt the instant my skates hit the ice," says Olivia, "and he held out his hands to pull me up and said that if I'd held onto him, I wouldn't have fallen."

Casey sighs dramatically.

"Yeah, yeah, 'aww' and all that," says Olivia, pretending impatience. "So I held onto both his hands while he skated backwards, not showing off in the _slightest_, of course, and we made it all the way around the rink. And again, only holding onto one of his hands this time, but my skates hit a bump or a hole or something, and I tripped."

"But he caught you."

"He did," Olivia agrees, "and whispered that he would always, always catch me. And then he dropped to one knee." She looks over at Casey, who is beaming. "And he said he knew that at times, both of us would fall, and that he wanted to be with me forever, because he knew we would always hold each other up. And he pulled out the ring from his pocket." Olivia waves her hand in the air as evidence. "And he asked me to marry him."

"And then you fell into his arms."

"Quite literally; a four-year-old crashed into the back of my knees. And obviously I said yes, and that's all the information you need," says Olivia with no small degree of satisfaction.

"Rob is never going to propose," Casey says mournfully. "And it wouldn't live up to that, anyway."

"He will."

"How do you know?" asks Casey stubbornly.

"I'm psychic," whispers Olivia, but it was nothing close to ESP that saw Casey's boyfriend of two and a half years walk out of a jewelry store with a very small package and a very large smile last week.

"Here, let me zip you up," says Casey, suddenly business-like. Olivia turns obediently as Casey zips the back of her ivory dress closed. "You look beautiful," says Casey, beaming once more.

"I should," says Olivia, "I've been up since seven getting 'beautified.' I never knew it could take so much work to make my hair look exactly like it always does." But her expression as she catches a glimpse of herself in her full-length mirror belies her words.

"You're such a cop," says Casey, rolling her eyes.

"Can't help it," says Olivia. "It's in my – my heart." She knows nothing of her blood.

"Nope," says Casey, pretending not to notice the awkward pause. "Elliot's in your heart."

"You make it sound so sappy," groans Olivia. "Who knew you were such an incurable romantic?"

"Come on, you deserve a little romance." Olivia makes a non-committal noise in her throat. "What?"

"It's just – " She laughs then, at the absurdity of what she's doing. "I mean, look at me. What do I know about being married?"

Casey nods slowly, understanding unspoken fears. "You love each other," she says simply. "And that's what matters."

Olivia gives her a little half-smile. "I know."

Casey rubs her shoulder. "We need to go, Liv; traffic is awful." Olivia checks her reflection in the mirror once more, to Casey's exasperation. "Elliot is going to lose all power of coherent thought when he sees you," says Casey with so much satisfaction that it might have been entirely her doing. "Except to say 'I do.'"

…

Olivia waits in the back of the church, shifting from foot to foot with nerves, and occasionally peeking into the sanctuary to see how far along the service is going. It wasn't a strictly Catholic wedding, as certain circumstances made that a little tricky, but she still wasn't used to wooden pews and soaring ceilings and stories told in stained glass.

"Breathe," comes a voice from behind her, and Olivia turns to smile gratefully at her captain.

"I think I can handle that."

"I have no doubts whatsoever," he says.

"Did you ever think you'd see this day?" she asks with a grin.

"I have to say I wasn't exactly surprised," he admits. "It's not the first time this has happened on the force, but there were never partners like you two." He smiles fondly at her.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "For doing this."

"Detective Benson, I would have been offended if you'd asked anyone else. And that," he adds, hearing the opening strains of Pachelbel's Canon, "is our cue."

They link their arms together and begin to walk down the aisle.

Casey is waiting up at the front as her Maid of Honor, and Elliot's three daughters as bridesmaids, but as she walks, she does not see any of them. Her eyes find Elliot's immediately, and neither of them look away. She's struck with the odd feeling that she has been walking down this aisle throughout her entire life, and had simply never realized it before. Her heart pounds; she has always been walking towards him.

Captain Cragen leaves her at the front, taking the place in the pew where her father would have been. She steps up to her place next to Elliot, and can't help but feel that everything in her life has finally fallen into place.

When looking back, she would not remember the vows clearly, nor the exchange of rings, nor a great deal of what made up the quintessential wedding (though she had no doubt that she would remember that kiss). But she would remember Maureen tearing up and Casey bawling, and she would remember Dickie as the youngest best man she had ever seen trying to look cool and unaffected. She would remember joining hands at the end – "In front of God and everybody," Lizzie had said – and walking out of the church, whole.

They are transported to the reception in a police car bedecked with white ribbon and a "Just Married" sign; both of them laugh to see it.

"Never been in the back of one of these," says Olivia, clambering in.

"I should hope not."

Once inside, she turns to him and gently cups the side of his face. "I can hardly believe it. That – that we made it this far."

He covers her hand with his own. "I can."

A peculiar sort of fairy tale, but a happy ending nonetheless.

They arrive at the reception just as the bridal party is getting there; Olivia hugs each of her new stepdaughters, and Dickie solemnly shakes her hand. Their guests begin to file in, pink-cheeked with the sudden wind, but there was never a more beautiful September afternoon.

When everyone is seated, casting longing glances towards the cake, Dickie stands up to make a toast. "They never told me being the best man would be so much work," he says, to scattered laughter. "I mean, a suit and everything. But none of us would trade this day for anything in the world. Have you ever seen two people look so happy?" The crowd laughed again at the couple in question's broad grins. "It took them a while – I know Maureen had it figured out _years_ ago – but they got there in the end, didn't they? On behalf of my sisters as well, we're glad it's you, Olivia. Congratulations to you both." He raises his glass, realizing belatedly that he'd forgotten half of his prepared speech, but deciding they'd gotten the gist of things. Everyone follows suit, murmuring their congratulations. Olivia, unable to contain herself any longer, stands up and hugs him.

"Cake time," says Elliot, taking her by the hand and walking to the table groaning under the weight. She casts a nervous glance at it, hoping it won't collapse. Their hands together hold the knife, neatly slicing out the first piece of cake. They feed bites of it to each other, then step back, allowing Maureen and Kathleen to take over the cake management.

Before the dancing begins, Olivia turns her back and closes her eyes. She and Elliot had previously decided that this was a much more logical time to throw the bouquet, so she flings it over her shoulder into the crowd of waiting girls and women. She's not surprised in the slightest to see that Casey, softball champion, has snagged it with the tips of her fingers. "Yes!" Casey cries, then blushes, embarrassed.

And then, in front of Elliot and Olivia and everyone else's shocked eyes, Rob walks over to her and kneels down. Olivia is too far away to hear the words, but there is no doubt what he's saying, and there's no doubt what her answer is as she flings her arms around his neck.

"Yes!" echoes Olivia, albeit more quietly than Casey had done, and the crowd bursts into applause.

"Hey, get your own wedding!" someone bellows, and they break apart, laughing.

Maureen had been put in charge of music, and she motions that it's time to start. When the first notes begin, Olivia and Elliot move to the dance floor. She will later dance with Cragen, with Aaron, even with Dickie, but this is the only dance that truly matters. He wraps his arms around her waist, her arms around his neck, and the crowd clears a space for them as they dance. One step, another, perfectly in time.

_The search is over – you were with me all the while._


End file.
